Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That’s the problem with greatness. It’s personal, prejudicial, and exists in a time warp

It compresses generations, challenges convention. It lasts a lifetime, but can be confirmed in seconds.

It needs the ice of statistics, the fire of emotion, and the courage of convictions.

Ali is the most charismatic sportsman I’ve met, ­Bradman the most complex, Senna the most compelling.

Maradona is the biggest cheat. He’s my favourite ­footballer of all time.

He’s my secret vice, a ­sinner whose ­shamelessness is part of the ­attraction.

I know, I know. It’s ­blasphemy. I’m defending the indefensible.

His is the Hand of God, locked in a permanent ­middle finger salute.

He has the demon eyes of a drug abuser, and exists in a moral vacuum.

He lacks the dignity of Sir Bobby Charlton, the ­humility of Sir Tom Finney.

But, on the other hand . .

He’s never acquired Pele’s pomposity or Michel Platini’s sneering disregard for lesser members of the human race.

He’s not a Madame ­Tussauds waxwork, like Cristiano ­Ronaldo or an ­executive toy like Fernando Torres. He’s not held ­hostage by the brand like David ­Beckham or a slave to money like too many I can mention.

He’s a bigger ­survivor than ­Gloria Gaynor. He’s got Iggy Pop’s lust for life. He would have been in his element, amidst the hate and hysteria in the Bernabeu in midweek. He’s a Barca boy, but ­probably ­possesses a heart-shaped locket, ­containing Jose ­Mourinho’s mugshot.

They’re a marriage made in the ­seventh circle of Hell.

They’re anarchists, narcissists. They ­expect everything to revolve around them. Like Mourinho, ­Maradona when wouldn’t have been around to decide a Champions League semi-final that featured more villains than the London ­Dungeon.

He would have been sent off, or carried off.

And that’s why something changed on the Wed­nesday the world went mad.

Messi did more than rescue us from the worst, most ­dispiriting game in years. He eased Maradona aside. He reminded us that true greats shape occasions to their will.

It’s harder these days than when Maradona was at his maddest. Players are bigger, quicker, stronger. They are better physical specimens.

They are more easily ­regimented by the real stars, coaches who behave like battlefield generals.

Under them, football has become a game of ­containment. Everything is geared to neutralising ­individual brilliance.

Messi is only 23, the length of time it took Pelé to score 1281 goals in 1363 games. It will be a modern miracle if he matches those numbers.

As usual, he was kicked from pillar to post. He never complained and had George Best’s bravery to keep ­coming back for more.

He emphasised the ­emptiness of the spittle-flecked confrontations. He made those around him ­concoct conspiracy ­theories.

The audacity of his second goal matched that of ­Maradona. It was the ­inevitable ­by-product of his pace, ­control and mental strength. He has a low centre of gravity, and doesn’t hold himself in high esteem.